


A Song of Birds (and loyal hounds)

by TheCakeConundrum (orphan_account)



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, Angst, Domestic Fluff, Drabble Collection, F/M, Fluff, Future Fic, I'm Sorry, Literary crossovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-09
Updated: 2016-01-21
Packaged: 2018-04-08 11:32:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 16,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4303230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/TheCakeConundrum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of SanSan drabbles, ranging from short canon-compliant pieces to AUs of all kinds.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Namedays

**Author's Note:**

> _'Why did you post this, Cake?'_ you ask, while pointing at the seemingly endless list of fics I have not completed. I tell you true; I needed to tidy up my computer, where I found these little drabbles. I wrote them to help me get back into the swing of things after long periods without updating, but I was too fond of them to delete them. 
> 
> So, in short: I hope you enjoy these, safe in the knowledge you will never have to wait for updates. Much love.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three of Sansa's namedays that passed by unnoticed.
> 
> This occurs in the same scenario as 'Firelight', and can be read as a sequel to that one-shot.
> 
> Caution: Some fluff.

Sansa’s sixteenth nameday was spent fighting fever. 

Her journey from the Vale in the approaching winter had taken its toll, and she had lain shivering and sweating for days on end. Her only gifts were damp cloths for her burning forehead, and cups of boiled water to try to alleviate the dryness of her aching throat. It seemed as though all of Winterfell were fussing about her, the only Stark that had returned to them. Stannis Baratheon held the keep, and he had seen to it that she was cared for. The maids had flittered about the chamber with soothing words, opening windows despite her insistence that she was _freezing._ The maester had checked on her every hour. _‘Fevers are a tricky thing,’_ she had heard him fretting through the haze of sickness. _‘It may well burn itself out by the morrow, or things could take a turn for the worse. She must be watched constantly.’_

Amid the chaos of replies, ringing through her clouded mind like echoes, one had silenced them all. _‘I’ll watch the girl,’_ the rasping voice had said. _Sandor._ He had brought her home, but home was full of scorch marks and strangers. He was her only constant, and so she reached for him through the fog. 

Calloused fingers met her trembling ones against the covers. _‘Little bird,’_ he murmured, close enough that she felt his breath across her face. _‘Fight it. I know you can.’_

She could. She did.

****

Her seventeenth nameday was different, but somehow still similar. Different in that there was no fever keeping her bedridden; a year back in the northern air had soon cleared her head, and even the maester had commented on her good health. Like the previous year, however, the occasion passed unremarked upon. Anyone who might have remembered her nameday had long gone. There was no Maester Luwin to add her new age into the Stark annals, nor Septa Mordane to give her leave of her lessons for the day. Her family could not give her their good wishes.

The thought came to her, not for the first time that day, at table in the evening. Seated as she was at the top of the hall beside a silent Lord Stannis, in the chair that had once been occupied by her lady mother, it brought the warmth of tears to her eyes. She hadn’t cried for years. Alayne Stone had never lost anyone she loved; there had been no need for tears in the Vale. 

Just as Sansa thought herself exposed, the tears threatening to fall onto her cheeks as she cast her gaze downward to her plate, a sudden muttering had erupted from the far end of the hall. She saw Stannis’ knife return to the tabletop, and that was when she had looked up.

Three people were striding the length of the hall. Several bannermen, from the North and the Stormlands combined, had drawn their swords, but a raised hand from Stannis had stilled them. The approaching group were led by a man; he was grizzled and worn-looking, a greying beard grown thick upon his cheeks. Sansa sensed rather than saw Stannis stand beside her.

_“Ser Davos.”_ He sounded shocked, or as shocked as so stoic a man could possibly be. Sansa watched the stranger’s face intently.

Ser Davos looked at the man beside her. _“Your Grace,”_ he replied, _“I bring with me Rickon Stark.”_

A boy had stepped around him, a boy with auburn curls and eyes blue as Northern skies. Every eye in the room was turned toward him, save one man’s; he sat at the far side of the room, concealed as much by shadow as the candle light would allow. His grey gaze was fixed upon Sansa, and she felt it holding her steady even as the hall erupted around them.

*****  
Sansa was long past expecting anyone to recall her nameday. At eight-and-ten, she was older than her brother Robb had been as King in the North, older even than her mother when she had birthed her first child. She was no longer a girl.

Snow was still falling beyond the window of her solar as she rose from her chair. She spent the morning writing letters; first to Tyrion, to thank him once again for his continued observance of the North’s needs in terms of fresh supplies each month. The second was to Castle Black, to inform the Lord Commander of the state of the wildlings he had sent to Winterfell’s care a year and a half before. Once sent, the day was hers; yet she felt almost weary at the thought. The day could never _truly_ be hers, as acting Warden of the North. While the maester and the steward and the master-at-arms tried to tame Lord Rickon back into some semblance of civilised behaviour, she must undertake his duties as she had before his return.

Those first few months had been frightening to her. The Rickon she recalled had been four years old, wilful and playful but ultimately sweet-tempered in his way. The boy who had returned to Winterfell had been half-wild, preferring to roam the godswood with Shaggydog in tow, answering only to Osha and incapable of sitting still for more than a minute. He could neither read nor write, and so hours were now devoted to his education- efforts that went largely unappreciated by the young lord himself.

It was all she can do to maintain her patience with her youngest brother, but maintain it she must. He is the only family that remains to her; she has told him so often, though Rickon still refused to believe it. _‘Bran and Arya are alive,’_ he told her on those occasions, with an unnerving certainty. _‘I know it.’_

The idea put a twist in her belly as she left her solar for the maester’s chamber. Rickon told her of how he and Bran parted ways, one under the care of a wildling woman and the other in the company of Howland Reed’s children and, if he tells it true, Hodor. They were headed north, Rickon said, a fact that gave Sansa very little hope to go on. She refused to tell her brother as much either.

What had become of Arya was even less certain. Sandor had told her everything he knows; she had left him dying beside the Trident. Where she might have gone from there was anyone’s guess. _’She’s a tough little wolf bitch, that one,_ ’ the captain of the guard had told her one night, when she had come to see him in his chambers. _‘If anyone could survive, it’s her.’_

The memory was somewhat more comforting, partly because of the chance that her sister might yet live, and partly because Sandor had informed her of it as they’d sat together in his chair, huddled together as they had the day a snowstorm had caught her off guard. It had become something of a routine since; despite being assured of her feelings, Sandor still refuses to answer to her. _She_ must go to _him_. Though he had always been an honest man, he was only truly open with her on his own terms, when he could be sure it was just the two of them and that he had her all to himself for a good while. Such moments had become more infrequent since Rickon’s return; she felt herself longing for that privacy, the weight of his arms around her.

It made her blush even as she trails her way through the quiet passages of the keep. The only people to see her so, thankfully, were a handful of servants bustling in and out of chambers, arms laden with linens and fresh rushes and kindling for the fireplaces. They dipped into hasty bows and curtseys when she passed, unaware that the woman they were showing such courtly respect to was at the beckoned call of the master-at-arms. _Wouldn’t that be a thing to tell them,_ Sansa mused as she descended the stairs that would take her to the great hall. _Sandor would surely find it funny._ It brought a small, if not terribly guilty, smile to her lips.

The moment she crossed the threshold of the hall, however, the expression fell from her face. Already, there was a substantial line of smallfolk being ushered against the back wall, watching her with expectant eyes as she sank into her chair at the lord’s table. Rickon sat beside her, munching on walnuts and looking utterly unconcerned. He still hadn’t learned to sit properly at table; his legs hung over one side as he ate, and he kicked the chair leg frequently, causing the plates upon it to shudder violently.

“Pardons, my lady,” the maester muttered to her from Rickon’s left-hand side. “We were not expecting so many petitioners so early in the day. It didn’t seem right to send them away, or make them wait out in the snow.”

Sansa sighed, the tiniest exhalation through her nose, soft as a baby’s breath. She gave the maester a strained smile.

“Of course not. It is of no matter. Rickon and I will be glad to hear them once we’ve broken our fast.”

The boy beside her jerked his head up at that, defiance in his Tully eyes. “ _I’m_ not staying.” He told her, matter-of-factly. “Shireen and I are having our lessons, and then we’re going for a ride into the wolfswood. Shaggydog is getting restless again.”

The news did not hold well with Sansa. It was her view that Rickon desperately needed some experience in hearing the concerns of the people and aiding them accordingly, even if he only stayed to watch _her_ do so. But instead, it seemed he would be spending a pleasant day with the current ward of Winterfell. Shireen Baratheon had arrived at the keep not long after Rickon himself, at her father’s request, and Sansa had agreed to allow her to stay while Stannis continued his campaign for the Iron Throne. The young girl was an easy guest, quiet, kind and polite. Surprisingly, she and Rickon had already formed a fast friendship, one that her advisors had said could be worked to the North’s advantage. 

Sansa had been firm on that front, however; she would not broker a marriage for a boy not yet grown, and half a wildling besides. It was imperative that he learned more first, to become the ruler Robb never had the chance to be.

Before his sister could voice any of her misgivings, however, Rickon had lurched from his chair and raced out of the great hall, followed by Osha’s ringing laughter and a scattering of walnuts from his careless hands. Sansa sighed again, audibly this time, resting her pounding head in her hands as she listened to the muttering and shuffling feet of the smallfolk waiting for her.

Today, she surmised, would be one of the worst namedays she’d had.

*

When she finally retired to her chambers that evening, weary- _bone-tired_ was more like it, to her estimation- Sansa had every intention of calling for a hot bath to soothe her strained nerves before falling into bed and sleeping for half a day at least. 

On arriving in her bedchamber, however, she found it empty. The maids had already been, it appeared, seemingly earlier than usual; flames flickered in the grate, her bed freshly made. She would have to go looking for one of them, then, a thought that gave her aching head no comfort.

A hand on her upper arm made her start so violently that she might have knocked into her assailant’s chin- except that it was a good head higher than the crown of her auburn hair, and she glanced sharply around to find a pair of grey eyes watching her intently.

Instant relief turned suddenly into mild annoyance, and Sansa’s gaze flickered to the door. It was now shut, where she had left it carelessly open not moments before, thinking one of the maids would be likely to close it once they’d drawn her a bath. _He must have been hiding behind it,_ she surmised, and the notion was not endearing in the least. Where was the need in concealing himself from her? She would have let him in gladly if he’d knocked, or welcomed him had he greeted her the moment she entered the room. She knew him better than anyone else in the keep, after all, something _he_ knew all too well.

Sensing her irritation, Sandor released her arm, backing up a step to give her a mocking half-smile that did nothing to ease the harshness of his scars in the firelight. “The little bird finally returns to her nest,” he mused roughly, amusement lacing his tone. “I’ve been waiting here for bloody hours.”

“I was detained,” Sansa replied with an irritation that surprised her. “As you well know, I have the luxury of having to perform all the duties expected of the ruler of Winterfell, while its _true_ ruler is allowed to follow his every whim.”

One of his brows raised at that, and Sansa suddenly realised how she must sound. _Like a whining child._ It was unseemly, both of her position and of a woman grown. Sighing, she brought her gaze up to meet his, offering him a meek smile in apology.

“Forgive me. I don’t mean to complain.” Moving away from Sandor for the time being, she sank into one of the chairs by the hearth, where she could watch him without the danger of falling over from exhaustion. “I only meant…”

“That it’s no way to spend your nameday?” Sandor offered, the very picture of solemnity- yet she saw the slight twitch in the corner of his mouth that belied his serious tone.

Then she realised what he’d actually said, and gasped. “You _knew_?”

He gave her a withering look. “It wasn’t that hard to find out, little bird. I knew you _had_ a nameday like everyone else, but for the life of me I didn’t know when. So I found some of Winterfell’s annals in the maester’s study and found out for myself.”

For a moment, Sansa could only wonder how on earth he managed to gain access to the maester’s study- but then she recalled his skill in remaining concealed, something that had given her great surprise all those years ago in the Red Keep. 

Then she was hit by the implication of his words- not only had he wanted to know when her nameday was, he had actively gone out of his way to find out for himself. _A wonder he didn’t just ask me directly,_ Sansa thought, taken aback by such uncharacteristic secrecy. But she gave him a smile all the same, a smile she could feel stretching her cheeks the way smiles hadn’t in such a long time. 

Before she really knew it, she was on her feet again, her arms finding his broad torso and wrapping themselves around it in the tightest embrace she could muster. The man staggered slightly at the impact, though the young woman suspected that had more to do with shock than any strength of hers. 

They had been in close contact before, of course- whenever he summoned her to the old watchtower where he had taken his rooms, under the guise of having security matters to discuss, he would sit his enormous frame into an armchair and pull her into his lap, holding her close, so close she could hear his heart beating away in his chest like the rhythm of a war drum. 

This, though- this was different. Sansa had initiated it, for one; and there was something about such an embrace, something that spoke of a trust neither of them had to acknowledge aloud. She had- both figuratively and quite literally- opened her arms to him, and he had not pushed her away. 

He reached out a hand, first to pat her rather awkwardly between the shoulder blades; and then, when it became apparent she had no intentions of releasing him, he moved it upward to fold his fingers in her hair.

“If this is the thanks I get for just finding out when your nameday is,” Sandor said, his voice a rumble through his chest that she felt against her cheek, “I wonder what you’ll do when I give you your present?”

Sansa’s arms loosened their hold at that, and she stood back to look him in the face. He was grinning at her, no doubt with the rather lascivious thoughts his words conveyed, and she couldn’t help but return his smile. “A present?”

“The little bird repeats whatever she hears,” he replied, the echo of a man they had once known. But it was said with a tone she had never heard from him back then; a mixture of exasperation and unmistakeable affection. Her heart seemed to glow at the thought. “Yes, a present.”

From the depths of his dark cloak, Sandor pulled a thin wooden box, holding it out to her. It was uncarved and plain, but Sansa’s stomach leapt at the sight of it. It was the sort of box in which one would keep jewellery- necklaces and earrings, perhaps as part of a set. She met his grey eyes, saw her own excited reflection within them. Had he remembered, that she had lamented the loss of her jewels when she had fled King’s Landing? It was not the beauty of them she missed, but the stories that went with them- presents from Mother and Father, some from Robb, back when her family had been whole and her life truly happy.

“Sandor…” she began, unsure of what she wanted to say, but hoping her tone conveyed it all. She took the box with nervous hands, lifting open its lid, waiting with baited breath for what awaited her within its shadows…

It took a moment for her to register what she was seeing. 

“It’s a dagger.”

The words came out bland, more from surprise than the slight twinge of disappointment she felt swirling in her belly. She could feel Sandor tense, ready to defend himself- ever the soldier, forever waiting for a blow. The thought saddened her.

“Of course it’s a bloody dagger,” the man rasped sharply, clearly disconcerted by her reaction. His eyes were flickering from the box to her face, jaw growing tenser with every passing second. “It’s all good being the Lady of Winterfell, girl, but what’s the use in that if you can’t defend yourself from an attack on your _noble_ person?”

Sansa’s eyes flickered over the dagger. The blade was thin, more like an eating knife than something made to kill or maim, glinting silver in the flickering light of her bedchamber. She noticed that the hilt, though plain at first glance, had words carved into the metal. _‘Winter is Coming’_.

She must have said the words aloud, something in her tone must have told of her surprise, for Sandor’s gaze turned suddenly hopeful. “Turn it around,” he encouraged her hoarsely. She did as she was bid, turning the blade very carefully so that the other side faced her. Where the handle of the blade formed its cross, there lay the clear outline of a wolf.

“I thought about asking for a little bird,” Sandor explained before she could say anything. “But then I reckoned… after Littlefucker…” He let his words trail away, knowing her unwillingness to talk about her time in the Vale. All that was behind her now, she knew, and the dagger in her hands- and the man in front of her who had given it- were proof of that.

In an instant, Sansa knew it was the best gift she could ever have hoped for. The blade had all the potential to be lethal, to be an instrument of death and pain; and yet it was also an undeniable elegance in its danger, a thoughtfulness woven through it that the eye did not initially appreciate.

It reminded her of him. 

“It’s perfect,” she told him, without having to think of the words, without any falsehood or pretence. She offered him a watery smile, which he regarded with narrowed eyes, no doubt trying to determine any lie she might be telling.

Apparently, he found none, for he took the box from her hands and placed it on the side table nearby, the tension visibly vanished from his shoulders and a half-smile playing at the corner of his mouth. When he turned back, it was to pull her into his arms. They were unyielding as steel, and yet Sansa knew they would only ever protect her. She leaned into him, and felt a kiss being pressed against her temple, her jaw, the tender skin behind her ear.

“Happy nameday, little bird.”

And it truly was.


	2. Apologies, Austen [Pt.1]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is a truth universally acknowledged; that a dog will die for you, but never lie to you.
> 
> Because everyone needs some Pride and Prejudice-themed SanSan, even if they don't know it yet.

“I daresay all your fears were unfounded, Jeyne.” Sansa Stark gave her friend a knowing smile from where they sat at the edge of the room. Another song had been struck up, and in the centre of the floor the dance was in motion. Already they were on the two third, and the young woman vaguely wondered how the time could have passed quite so quickly. “There does not appear to be any woman here unknown to us by sight.”

Jeyne Poole, who had been fretting all week over the news that Mr Blackwater was to be bringing no less than twenty ladies with him from town, had the grace to blush a little. “You’re right.” A small smile crept onto her lips, however, as she fixed her gaze upon the dancers. “Margaery hasn’t been without a partner all evening, look!”

Sansa obeyed. From their vantage point, she could see her other great friend, Margaery Tyrell, make her way down the line of dancers to face her partner again. She looked beautiful; her brown hair tied up in elaborate style, wearing a dress of green velvet. The man she danced with did not escape her notice either- the previously elusive Bronn Blackwater, the man her father had gone to meet not a week before was smiling back at Margaery as though in a daze. Sansa’s mother had been eager all night for an introduction with him- and the reasons why hardly escaped Sansa’s understanding- but, when Mr Blackwater _had_ met their party, his eye had been immediately drawn to Miss Tyrell. In all honesty, it hadn’t left her all night.

“Poor Mamma,” Sansa mused, a soft smile stretching onto her face. “She _will_ be disappointed.”

Jeyne giggled at that. She knew as well as Sansa of Catelyn’s preoccupations; the daughter of the Starks’ former steward, she had lived at Winterfell since her father’s death over a decade before. “It’s really a shame Mr Blackwater didn’t bring more gentlemen. Then Catelyn wouldn’t have to worry.”

“He did bring that one man,” Sansa observed, scanning the crowd of dancers in search of the only other face that had been unfamiliar to her upon entering the assembly room. Mr Blackwater’s companion, an enormously tall, broad-shouldered man with dark hair and eyes was yet to be introduced to her, and the young woman couldn’t help but feel a spark of curiosity as her eyes looked for him.

“ _Him_?” Jeyne gave a derisive laugh. “He hasn’t danced with anyone all night. I daresay he hasn’t opened his mouth once since he arrived. Look, there he is, over there.”

She nodded her head to the left side of the room. Among the small groups of chattering ball-goers, faces from the neighbourhood that Sansa knew well, the tall stranger stood alone. She hadn’t had an opportunity to study him before- there had been the pressing matter of becoming acquainted with Mr Blackwater- but now, from where she sat at the edge of the liveliness, she could see him perfectly. A gasp escaped her throat before she could catch it. 

One side of the man’s face, the side that had been hidden from her when she had first seen him, was entirely scarred. The flesh was a mess of twisted, raw-looking fissures that was painful even to glance at. _Burned._ Sansa felt a twinge of pity for the man even as she pulled her gaze away. The way those burns must have come about could only have been painful. Perhaps he too had been a military man? She wondered where he must have fought. In her mind’s eye, she could see him; a brave man fighting for king and country, sustaining injury in the line of duty. Though he was surely frightening to behold, Sansa could quite forgive him in her mind for spurning the young ladies in the room.  
_Perhaps he is self-conscious._

“Do you know his name?” Sansa heard herself ask Jeyne over the merry whirl of music the orchestra had created. 

“Sandor Clegane,” her friend told her, in as quiet a voice as she could manage without being drowned out. “I heard Mace Tyrell say he owned a large estate somewhere in the north. He has ten thousand a year. Lord, isn’t he _ugly_?”

He _was_ , but Sansa knew it was most unladylike to say such a thing about a man she’d never met. “Don’t be unkind, Jeyne.”

Jeyne didn’t seem to hear her admonishment, brown eyes shining with mirth as she continued. “Though perhaps ten thousand a year makes him somewhat more agreeable.”  
Before Sansa could make any reply, a young man stepped toward them, hand extended. For a moment Sansa’s heart leapt with relief; what was the point of a ball if she was made to sit down for so many dances? 

But to her disappointment, the gentleman requested for Jeyne’s company through the next dance. With a polite nod from the man, and a delighted grin from her old friend, Sansa was soon sitting quite alone. With a sigh, she folded her hands in her lap. _Arya will laugh, to see me by myself._ Her younger sister detested balls, but had been made to come regardless. She was no doubt getting underfoot somewhere nearby, or else making friends with the servants. _She causes no end of embarrassment._ Still, Sansa would not let her night be ruined, for the sole reason of wanting to take away any possible mockery of Arya’s. So she was determined to content herself with watching Margaery’s progress with the newcomer. One of Sansa’s oldest friends, and a much beloved one, there was a joy in seeing the Tyrell daughter enjoying herself.

When Sansa looked, however, the two-fourth had begun, and Margaery was now dancing with someone else. Bewildered, Sansa’s eyes scanned the room, before she found Mr Blackwater standing nearby and speaking with his unsociable friend. They had been forced a little nearer to where she sat, and though she knew eavesdropping to be incredibly impolite Sansa couldn’t help but listen to their conversation. She kept her eyes fixed serenely on the dancers.

“Really, Sandor, you should dance.” Mr Blackwater told his companion, his grin audible. 

“You know I don’t dance.” Came the gravelly reply. Mr Clegane’s voice was strange, rough as steel on stone. 

“Enough of your sulking,” Bronn continued, tone mirthful. _Is he always so cheerful?_ Sansa wondered, thinking of Margaery. Her friend had always enjoyed company where a good sense of humour was involved, and the thought brought a small smile to her face. “There’s plenty of pretty girls without partners. I’m sure they’ll think quite _kindly_ towards you if you relieve them.”

The tall man scoffed in derision. “‘Kindly’, you say? I don’t think so. Unless one of them is blind, and dim-witted besides, none of them will care to dance with the likes of me. Besides, _you’ve_ got your eye on the prettiest one in the room.”

“She’s the loveliest thing I’ve ever seen,” Mr Blackwater agreed earnestly. Sansa felt a rush of excitement. _Oh, how wonderful for Margaery!_ It would seem she had him in the palm of her hand already. _Poor Mamma, indeed._ “But I daresay her friends are more than agreeable. There’s one of them over there- she’s one of the Starks, I think, and very pretty besides.”

Sansa felt herself blush at that, but kept her face averted that the two gentlemen might not notice. After a moment’s pause, during which she could almost _feel_ the scarred man’s eyes upon her, she heard him rasp a mirthless laugh.

“She’s tolerable,” Mr Clegane replied. “If you like nervous little chirping birds, that is. You’re wasting your time on me, Bronn. Go back to the girl you’ve been fawning over, and enjoy her company. God knows I won’t be imposing mine on any of _these_ people tonight.”

She heard no more of their exchange, as just at that moment her mother sat down beside her, wearing the expression of schooled politeness that usually hid her disapproval. Sansa couldn’t quite find it in herself to pity her, however; her mind was still fixed on the tall stranger’s words. Had he _truly_ said such a thing about her? Despite herself, Sansa felt her vanity a little ruffled by his comment. Yes, she had been sitting alone for a dance or two, but that was no insult. She had often been described as the beauty of the county; no one else had ever called her a _‘nervous little chirping bird’_ in her entire life, and certainly not a stranger she had never met. 

Any stirrings of pity Sansa might have felt for the man disappeared in a moment. Pink-faced, she listened to her mother’s observations on the goings-on around them, the latest pieces of news from their friends, but she couldn’t truly hear any of them. The way Mr Clegane had referred to the assembly, with such a note of disgust in his voice, affronted her. Did he think himself above them? _What a proud, disagreeable man he is,_ she mused. _And yes,_ very _ugly._

As the night wore on, it became clear to Sansa through her conversations with neighbours and friends that Sandor Clegane had failed to make a good impression on them either. He had flatly refused any offer of refreshment, save a notable volume of red wine, and had answered any polite enquiries in monosyllables that spoke volumes of his distaste at being spoken to. “I wonder why he came at all,” Sansa heard her mother say to Mrs Tyrell when she passed them on her way down the line of the final dance of the night. “He refuses to dance, or to eat, or to even _speak_ to anyone. He clearly feels himself above his company.” Catelyn spoke in the slightly heightened volume that denoted her anger; clearly she had passed the point of courtesy, and Sansa couldn’t find that she blamed her. Still, she almost cringed at the thought of Mr Clegane overhearing her. 

In one night, the entire neighbourhood had completed its appraisal of the two strange gentlemen they had found in their midst. One was professed universally as the best sort of fellow; by all accounts, Bronn Blackwater was a likeable, entertaining man who took it upon himself to show politeness to everyone. He had made an excellent impression on the Tyrells with his particular attentiveness to Margaery. Even Catelyn could find nothing bad to say about him, despite his grave mistake in setting his sights on someone other than her eldest daughter.

Of Mr Blackwater’s companion, however, there was equal certainty of consensus. Mr Clegane was denounced as a proud, impolite and disagreeable man by all that had attended the assembly. It seemed to Sansa, though the thought gave her little satisfaction from his earlier slight, that Jeyne Poole had been quite wrong. Not even ten thousand a year could ever succeed in making Sandor Clegane a tolerable man.


	3. Dawn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Caution: Contains mild traces of fluff.
> 
> Scrap that. This exceeds your guideline daily amount of fluff. Proceed with caution.

The first thing he became aware of on waking was warmth. It was there beneath the furs piled over him on the bed, radiating from the lithe body he knew to be laying beside him. Smirking slightly even with his eyes closed, Sandor stretched out an arm, reaching for smooth naked skin and the heat it promised him.

He was surprised, therefore, when his fingers met soft cotton instead, bunching clumsily in the material as he opened a bleary eye. His wife was watching him with one auburn brow raised, a vision of beautiful disapproval. The dull dawn light framed her face and hair where she sat upright, holding something in her arms.

"You're finally awake," she stated, the accusation in her voice undisguised but lacking in conviction. Sandor knew she wasn't _truly_ angry with him, not really, but the delectable little pout on her lips might have told an onlooker otherwise. "I can't believe you can sleep through all that noise."

Sandor lifted himself onto his elbow, suppressing the urge to groan at the stretching of his muscles as he met Sansa's expectant gaze. "You've never slept in a war camp, little bird. You can sleep anywhere after that."

She frowned at him for a moment, before deciding he was to be forgiven and graced him with a somewhat brighter expression. "Well, since I'm up so early I might as well call for a bath." She adjusted her grip on the object in her arms- a wriggling, gurgling bundle that she lifted toward him. "Hold this, please."

'This' happened to be the baby, whom Sandor had no choice but to gather in his arms awkwardly while Sansa rose to her feet, pacing over to the door to call the maid. 

The Lady Elinor Stark Clegane, to use her full title, sounded almost elegant, the sort of name that befitted the daughter of the Winter Queen. The reality however, as Sandor noted to himself, was a child not half a year old, round cheeked and with a few locks of dark downy hair atop her little head. Blue eyes, unnervingly like her mother's, stared up at him with infant openness.

The day she had first been placed in his reluctant arms, Sandor had been sure he'd never faced anything more daunting. In all the things he'd envisioned for himself- all the things that _shouldn't_ have happened, if the gods had any sense- becoming a father certainly wasn't among them.

But the babe, as he was wont to call her, had managed to endear herself to him where few had managed before. It was difficult calling her by her given name- Sansa had insisted on naming her for his sister, despite his misgivings. He'd thought she might have been called Catelyn, for the little bird's mother, but Sansa had thought otherwise.

_"She doesn't look like a Catelyn,"_ his exhausted wife had told him, as she'd held the newly born girl in her arms. Sandor didn't know how a baby could look like an _anything_ \- if he was honest, the child looked like any other infant (not that he'd ever admit that to Sansa). Over the proceeding months, and his little wife's insistence, however, he'd made an effort to go and see the child every night while she was being put to bed by the wet nurse. 

It had bemused him at first, to think that something so small, so helpless, could possibly have any connection to himself. He'd found enough courage to begin reaching out to her, watching as the tiny fingers wrapped themselves around one enormous thumb in a way that might have been amusing, had Sandor's heart not been in his throat the entire time. He'd been waiting, he had realised some time later: waiting for it all to go wrong, for the babe to begin wailing and for the nurse to sweep her up and away from the monster looming over her cradle. 

But she hadn't, had just stared up at him with eyes of brightest blue. He'd stayed there that night until she'd fallen asleep. 

Her hand on his face dragged him back to the present, the smooth unblemished skin of her little palm merely a ghost of sensation across his nose before it fell against his burns, and he could feel it no longer. Sandor didn't mind it, though, pulling his daughter higher in his arms and turning his head to plant a kiss on the back of her chubby little hand.

"You're not so scary, are you?" He murmured. Elinor just looked at him, the expression almost serious. Sandor breathed a laugh. "Don't give me that look. I have enough of that from your mother."

Across the room, Sansa looked over from where she sat at her dressing table, brushing out her hair while he waited for her bath to be drawn. A smile was playing at the corners of her mouth as she regarded them. No doubt they made for a humorous sight; a huge, scarred warrior caught fast in the clutches of a babe barely crawling. "Did you say something, Sandor?"

"No," he answered, temporarily forgiving himself the little lie. He watched avidly for a few moments as his wife turned back to her task, running the sliver brush through the auburn of her long curls. He loved her hair, and she knew it, hence the half-smirk on her lips as she met his eyes in the mirror.

A sudden tap on his nose redirected his attention to the wriggling babe in his arms. As though annoyed her father had let his attention wander away from her for more than an instant, Elinor was now pulling at the strands of hair that fell into his face, much to Sandor's amusement- and slight pain.

"Vicious little wolf cub, you are," he told the child as he rose from the bed, walking her over to the long windows that overlooked the yard. Several of the servants were already out and about, carrying buckets and wheeling carts of vegetable peelings from the kitchens to the pigsty. Across from their window, he could see a small shadow weaving its way along the battlements, occasionally dipping out of sight only to reappear again further along the inner wall of the keep. "Just like your aunt Arya. Can you see her?"

He thought Sansa might interrupt him at that, to give him some fact she learned from the Maester about babies being unable to see that far, but his wife remained peacefully quiet. The only sound that broke the tranquility was the faint noise of the brush through her hair.

"And your uncle Rickon will be up here any moment, no doubt, wondering where I am." As much as Sandor found Rickon's enthusiasm for his training amusing, such feelings dimmed somewhat so early in the morning, when he had every reason to stay exactly where he was.

_A wife and babe._ It seemed unreal to him sometimes, and yet there they were, living breathing beings who somehow, against all odds, loved him. Sandor shifted Elinor to his other arm, careful not to place too much weight on his bad leg as he did so. 

The sun was rising proper now, casting golden ribbons out across an unusually cloudless sky. The babe turned her head toward the window, and Sandor wondered how long she could stay this way, unheeding of the darkness in the world, oblivious to her own importance in the game of thrones. In that moment, however, she was surrounded by those who loved her, and all she could see was light. _And I'll be keeping it that way._

"But for now, little wolf, I can stay a while."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't judge me too harshly for this. It's past midnight and I'm sitting at the desk in my hotel room in Stirling, drinking Irn Bru and just generally exhausting myself for no good reason.


	4. Hiraeth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hiraeth: [Welsh/noun] - ' _a homesickness for a home you can never return to, or that never was.'_
> 
> [Oxford/ Merriam Webster definition]

These nights are the worst, he decides as he turns onto his side. In the dim half-light before dawn, all is bluish-black, inky and indistinct. But if he closes his eyes, he can still see _her_.

It's the dreams that anger him. Not the usual ones; the ones where his brother is dead by his own hand, or the ones full of flames and the smell of his own terror. Not even the ones where _she_ is there, beneath him, naked as her nameday and moaning like a whore. He can forgive himself those dreams- the dreams of any red-blooded man in the Seven Kingdoms, in his good opinion. 

No; it's the dreams like the one he has just woken from, sweating as though it had been one of his most torturous nightmares. There had been a room of sorts- a solar, perhaps, with an big empty fireplace and daylight tumbling through high windows over a sturdy wooden table. Its surface was laden with silver trays, slices of bread still hot from the toasting iron, fruit and pats of butter. He had sat there, looking at all these things from his seat at one end of the table, before he'd realised there was someone else sitting opposite him.

She looked older, as she always did in his dreams ( _as though that makes you any less vile for dreaming of her in the first place, dog_ ) and she held buttered bread in one hand and an open letter in the other. The light played in her red hair, the same way it did whenever he dared catch a glimpse of her in court, and there was no trace of a sorrowful child left in her face when she caught him staring. All womanly beauty, and suddenly _smiling_ at him, warm as the walls of Winterfell.

That was when he had woken up. Now he stares at the wall, his mind pouring poison. _As if she would ever look at you like that, you fool._ He has never even _wanted_ that look, anyway, not from any woman he has ever met. He scoffs quietly at his own subconscious stupidity.

It doesn't stop his chest tightening in something frighteningly close to... _what, exactly?_ He can't quite define it- isn't sure he wants to- but it tastes almost like grief.

And what does the Hound have left to mourn, he asks himself irritably as he watches the ever growing light shift its way down the stones of the wall. A future that will never be, a life that never was? 

_Too early for that shit._ He gets to his feet, ignoring the slight swaying of the room as the blood rushes from his head, reaching for his clothes and his sword. Any disappointment he might be harbouring- the idea makes him grit his teeth in frustration- will no doubt disappear after a few hours' hard training, guarding, and finally drinking himself into a stupor that no dream could possibly permeate.

Especially ones of _her_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A sad little one, I know. I was feeling a bit melancholic :3
> 
> _Hiraeth_ is one of those marvellous words that has no direct translation to English. It has many meanings, if you fancy googling them. All I know is whenever my late great-grandmother used to get quiet and reminiscent, and was asked what was wrong, she would heave a big sigh and just say "Hiraeth." 
> 
> Being the only Welsh-speaking member of he family, she never really got any understanding further than a sympathetic nod hiding everyone's confusion.


	5. Mission:Impractical [Part One]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was a response I've been trying to write for ages now to a prompt I saw on Tumblr. I can't remember whose prompt it was, but the idea was that one member of your OTP is a secret agent and the other is the voice in their earpiece, watching them via hacked surveillance.

She sat at the bar of the old pub, nursing a half pint glass in one perfectly manicured hand. Many a male eye turned toward her, lending expertly swift glances over her figure in the high backed stool, wondering how a girl like her could possibly be drinking alone.

If the other patrons thought they were being inconspicuous, they were most wrong. Sansa Stark noted every flicker of a gaze toward herself in the age-specked mirror over the bottle shelves. She committed the room to memory as she sat there waiting. Shiny wooden floor, red painted half-panel, booths along one wall and low tables dotted around the remainder of the bar space.   
Despite the overly ambitious menu scrawled in chalk over her head, clearly an effort by a more avant garde landlord to transform the place into some sort of gastropub, it still smelled like a proper local. Stale pints and over a century's worth of tobacco clinging to the upholstery in a way that no indoor smoking ban would ever remedy.

Taking a sip of the amber-gold liquid in her glass (which looked disarmingly alcoholic, but was in fact apple soda), Sansa turned her attention to the TV screen fastened to the wall in the corner of the room. The news was on; a solemn, dependable-looking newsreader was reeling off the usual atrocity, crime and scandal, a red banner running beneath him summing up the headlines. One was the arrest of a high-profile musician who'd been connected to a major country-wide drugs ring. A small twinge of dread twisted her stomach as she stared at the handsome profile of Marillion being led by police into court. 

_'Marillion was a scapegoat,'_ the Spider had told them, in the flickering industrial lighting of the Agency's board room. Sansa had never seen quite so many lines creasing his hairless brow. She hadn't taken it as a good sign. _'Once the Mockingbird gets wind of his arrest, and he will, he'll take every precaution to ensure he cannot be traced to this case. Meaning we have a limited window of opportunity. Stick to the plan, get it done, and get it done quickly.'_

The barman sidled over, skinny and pale. He wiped down the expanse of countertop beside her for a good few moments, and Sansa almost rolled her eyes- until he murmured something. "Valar moghulis."

In an instant, any accusation of flirtatious intent she might have held for the man vanished like a summer snow. The phrase was familiar, though its meaning was lost on her; the Spider had picked it up on his extensive travels and thought it appropriate as a code word.

"Valar dohaeris." She took another sip of her drink. The barman gave her a swift smile, before placing a little white ramekin of nuts on the surface between them. 

"On the house," he explained, in a cracked voice that sounded barely out of youth. Sansa returned his smile, before turning her gaze to the little bowl. If she squinted, she could make out something metallic at the bottom. Casually, she munched on a Brazil nut, then a cashew, pondering her surroundings for a little while as the barman took another order down the bar. When she felt she'd been waiting long enough, she reached in for the foreign object and made for the ladies'.

It was blissfully empty. Locking herself into a stall, Sansa raised the tiny object in her hand to her ear. With a few expert movements, she had the device resting snugly within it, and had turned it on.

_Please,_ she begged every god known to her. _Please say it's-_

"About bloody time." 

The voice from the earpiece was rough, gravelly and harsh, the tone utterly accusatory. And yet Sansa couldn't help the smile that stretched onto her face at the sound of it. 

"Nice to hear from you, too."

His voice was familiar, her one constant in their world of ever shifting locations, duties and even names. He was the moorings by which she kept afloat in a transient sea of secrets, and there was a small relief in knowing that if she told him as much, he would laugh right at her.

"Have you seen the news?" The Hound demanded of her, never one to mince his words. Sansa's smile faded.

"Yes. It doesn't look good."

"The Spider's doing his nut in. Said we'd better get our arses in gear before the whole case is on fucking _Crimewatch_."

"Somehow I doubt those were his exact words," Sansa muttered, thinking of Varys' usual vocabulary. "Besides, all the files on the Mockingbird are classified."

"All well and good," the Hound replied in her ear, "until he covers his tracks and sets us back to square one, like he did with MI5."

The Agency had already been collecting information on the Mockingbird when military intelligence officially handed over their findings. Old Barristan Selmy wasn't usually one to outsource, competent as he was, but since what had started out as a matter of suspected arms dealing had branched into an international affair of drug dealing, human trafficking and warmongering, he'd felt decidedly out of his depth. Easier, then, to call on an intelligence organisation that had no borders.

"We'd better make sure that doesn't happen, then," Sansa retorted stubbornly, undoing the cubicle lock and peering at her reflection in the bathroom mirror. Her auburn hair was tied sensibly back into a bun, a few stray strands tumbling down past her cheekbones. She wore a teal coat and black heels; not out of place in this corner of the capital, where City bankers in their good tailoring congregated after a long days' work. 

But it was only a matter of unbuttoning the coat to reveal the black dress beneath to transform her outfit into something more fitting for her objective. Another stab of nerves assaulted her stomach at the thought. _And that's the whole point of you being here, isn't it?_ A nasty voice, one that sounded a lot like Cersei, sneered in her head. _Sitting and smiling prettily._

Sansa knew why the Agency had taken her on- no illusions had been given to her on that front. She was a distraction in kitten heels, there to disarm and ply information from a suspect using charm alone. And thus far, charm had never failed her.

_The Mockingbird, though_... He was a different kettle of fish altogether, and possibly the most repulsive human being Sansa had ever had the misfortune to hear of. It was hard to imagine him, though; every one of his crimes lent new aspect to his character , rendering him ambiguously sinister, a shadow shifting in the corner of one's vision.

It would have been a lie to say she was not afraid of what lay ahead of her.

"You still there?"

The Hound's rough voice dragged her back to reality, a buoyancy vest through the depths of her anxieties. Her gratitude for his presence was immense.

_'No one will hurt you again,'_ he'd told her once. That had been in Vancouver, when she had expressed her fears at facing an encounter with a particularly deranged criminal- the 'Mad Mouse' himself. _'Or I'll kill them.'_

"I'm still here," she replied, her voice faint. 

There was a short pause. "You'd best get moving then, little bird. Don't want to miss our opportunity."

Sansa swallowed. "You'll keep an eye out, though?"

He scoffed, a rough rumble from the back of his throat. It sent shivers down Sansa's spine; she had never seen the man who acted as her eyes on these missions, but her imagination had formed a clear enough picture of him. Tall, of course, by the depth of his voice; powerfully built too, she had no doubt. She envisioned him dark-haired and menacing, and the idea- so different to her past taste in men- was nevertheless intriguing and appealing by turns.

"What else would I be doing?" He asked, voice dripping with sarcasm. "Don't you worry that pretty head if yours. I'll have eyes and ears on you all night, and backup's only a word away."

Though his voice was characteristically gruff, Sansa noted the effort to make his tone softer, more reassuring. Another smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.

"Alright, then," she said, her voice sounding uncertain even to her own ears. "Let's go catch a mockingbird."

"Good luck, little bird."

As she went to leave the toilet and make her way out into the street, Sansa caught a glimpse of her face. The stupid little smile curving her lips startled her, and she willed it back into an expression of nonchalance. 

It was only when she found herself on a busy London street, high-heeling her way to the Tube and the dangers that lay ahead, that she allowed herself to wonder at the irony of it all. The girl Sansa Stark had been loved songs and fairytales. 

How fitting, then, that she should have done something as colossally foolish as fall in love with a _voice_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is gonna be another multiple instalment drabble, like my P&P one.
> 
> My sister, who decided to go reading through my word documents, pointed out the myriad of British references in here that might not be understood (It's a spy AU. Where else would it be set?) So I'll cast some light on them just in case: 
> 
> -to 'do your nut in' is to become so angry your become almost manic. (Might not even be a universal Britishism. I can never tell.)  
> -'Crimewatch' is a BBC programme where national crime stories are shared, un solved cases reconstructed to try to find witnesses/useful information from the public, and the mugshots and names of those wanted for police questioning/arrest are shared.   
> -if you've ever been in a proper pub you'll know the smell I described. Stale beer and old cigarettes. It's oddly comforting.
> 
> Let me know your thoughts, lovelies! :3


	6. Mission:Impractical [Pt.2]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A continuation of the Spy!AU from  
> chapter 5.

The little bird was worried. 

Sandor couldn't blame her- not really. The Mockingbird was the most prolific criminal the girl had ever been given as a target. The risk, and the danger, were high. There could be no mistakes.

That was where the Hound came in.

The nickname he'd gained after all his years of service in the Agency was more or less accurate, in his opinion. Sandor Clegane could smell trouble a mile off, and this business with the Mockingbird practically reeked of it. But go through with it they must; the girl was the bait, and he would be her eyes and ears until backup came to finish the job. 

It had been the way of things since he'd been assigned to the little bird almost two years before. Oakheart, his fellow coworker on the surveillance unit the Spider had termed (to Sandor's extreme distaste) the Kingsguard, had been transferred to Dorne. Sandor hadn't been particularly enthusiastic about the change. Nor had the little bird.

Sitting hunched before the screens that dominated one wall of the surveillance van, Sandor felt a smirk twitch at the corner of his mouth. Oh yes, the girl had bloody well _hated_ him on their first few assignments together. He had growled at her attempts at courteous introductions through the microphone she wore, had mocked her incessantly at the slightest slip of composure. By their third mission (to his memory, tailing the notorious leader of the Brotherhood Without Banners), her patience had snapped. 

_"Why are you always so hateful?"_ The girl had asked him, her voice trembling with suppressed anger. Sandor had faltered. She thought he hated her. True, he'd given her plenty of reason to believe so in the course of their short acquaintance. He was sure he _ought_ to hate her, too- she was everything he normally loathed. Mindlessly polite, with a brain as seemingly empty as the words that came out of her pretty little mouth. But he _didn't_ hate her. Quite the opposite. And that was the problem.

She fascinated him. Not just because she was beautiful, though that was abundantly clear even from the grainy bird's eye view hacked CCTV afforded him. He'd seen her walking down city streets, laughing at the unfunny jokes of their targets, and (in a fortunate turn of events that he committed immediately to memory) seen her practically half-naked on the sands of Copacabana while investigating the Mockingbird's contacts in Brazil. 

But there was more to her than that. The little bird was resourceful, with a quick wit that would put the Imp to shame. She was still prone to underestimating the depths of human depravity, and continued to insist on her fine manners. But Sandor had to concede that, in the time they had known each other, she had made an impression on him.

He wasn't sure he liked the way that impression was leading. 

It didn't stop his stomach clenching when the upper left screen before him flickered to life, and he saw her. She'd made her way down onto the Underground, and stood clasping the rail as the train moved along. The carriage was cramped with passengers done up in coats and boots, some carrying umbrellas. Sandor could practically feel the damp heat, almost pitied the girl the ordeal of an overcrowded train before having to endure the risks of the mission ahead of them.

"When you reach Holburn, take the Piccadilly line to Covent Garden." His voice sounded rough even to him, humming slightly through the limited space of the van. The girl gave no indication of having heard him, save a fleeting glance up at the camera on the opposite side of the car. The colour of her eyes were indistinct through the lens, the auburn of her hair dulled somewhat in the flickering lights of the carriage, but she commanded his attention nonetheless.

 _And that's what she's there for,_ Sandor reminded himself sharply, sitting up in his chair where he had reached forward a few inches. Her job was to catch the eye of the Mockingbird, and he'd be a damned liar if he said she wouldn't be able to do so.

He watched silently as the train shuddered to a halt, pressing computer keys in quick succession to shift to the next camera. The girl changed platforms without incident, managing to wedge herself inside an even busier carriage heaving with tourists. Sandor barely suppressed a scoff as he observed the little bird somewhat squished against the fibreglass partition, cornered by a man with a particularly enormous backpack. 

The train soon slowed, alighting at the busy platform. _"This is Covent Garden,_ " the tanoid woman spoke over the heads of the paasengers. The instant the doors opened, the girl was out of them, pressing her way through the crowd toward the exit with a breathless litany of "Oh, pardon me," and "Excuse me, please".

"No time for manners, girl," Sandor told her bluntly as the screen shifted to follow her ascent up the escalator. "We've got a time limit."

The little bird didn't reply. Instead, she fished in her coat pocket for some unknown object. Sandor's brow furrowed slightly at the screen before he realised that she had placed her mobile phone to her ear.

"I disagree," she said, her tone light and pleasant. He supposed that was for the benefit of her fellow commuters, should any of them be bothered to listen in. 

"Of course you would," Sandor grumbled, his eyes flickering to a lower screen. "Once you're out on the street, the way there is straightforward. Turn left-"

"Yes, I know the way." He could hear the smile on her face, but his ear also picked up on the way it was strained, hiding the fear he knew to be lying beneath it.

"Good for you," Sandor muttered, his fingers reaching for the file on his lap. Glancing down from the screen, he thumbed through the document until he found what he was searching for. "Better check you know your cover, too."

"My name is Alayne Stone," the girl said without preamble, as though it were a statement of purest fact. _She's a better bloody liar than she used to be,_ the Hound reflected sardonically. He supposed it came with the territory. Well, not _his_ territory, perhaps. _'An honest man in a secret intelligence agency,'_ the Spider had once remarked after Sandor's initial training. _'You're a very rare breed, Sandor Clegane.'_

"Your job?" He continued, pushing away such irrelevant recollections. 

"Personal assistant. _Executive_ personal assistant," she corrected herself breathlessly, currently dodging a wedge of Italian students dawdling outside the Nag's Head, incongruous among the polished high street stores in all its Victorian glory. 

"The difference being?" He made no effort in disguising the sarcasm dripping from every word. Sandor could never quite grasp why the Agency insisted on giving the little bird such intricate, complex façades. Certainly, it captured the imagination, but in his good opinion no imagination was needed where a pair of long legs and a smile as pretty as hers was concerned. He doubted she'd be any less intoxicating pretending to work for the Land Registry.

"I attain a level of professionalism suitable for the highest standard of employers." She was being deliberately precise now, no doubt trying to annoy him with the undisguised fact she'd learnt the brief word for word. "Company executives, CEOs of up-and-coming businesses, City law firms, charities and so on."

"Your last client?" Disinterestedness rang in every syllable, but in truth Sandor's nerves were like live wires. _No room for error, little bird. Think carefully._

The girl, thankfully, did not have to think for very long. "Doran Martell." The man was the perfect choice; foreign nobility turned billionaire entrepreneur and renowned anti-conflict campaigner. In short, appropriately high-profile and fortunately detained overseas. "I worked for his main charity, the Water Gardens Foundation, acting as PA to its current head Arianne Martell. I left after two years once my contract had ended and am currently between jobs."

 _And so the trap is laid._ The misgivings Sandor had felt when the mission had been briefed to him returned full force, a tide of anxiety roiling in his stomach. It frustrated him no end; he was always cool and collected, had never let anything other than rational thought and his own instinct guide his actions on the surveillance team. All that had changed with the arrival of a pretty redhead.

 _Damn you,_ he told her silently as he watched her pacing down to the junction of James Street and Floral Street. Why did she have to go and get into his head? Hell, why did he allow her to get in there in the first place? _Damn me, too._

"You seem to remember everything," Sandor heard himself tell her, not quite aware of what he was saying. The girl half-laughed into the microphone, the sound going straight to his stomach and causing it to ache even more acutely. _Bloody buggering fool._

"Fingers crossed it'll be the same story when I get in there," she told him, feigning a lightness that he saw through like brittle glass. "When all this is done, I'm going to need a drink."

He breathed a rough laugh. "You and me both, girl."

A moment's pause. He could hear her footsteps on the pavement. "Well, why don't we?"

"Why don't we what?" He replied stupidly, his sullen tone returning.

"Have a drink," the little bird reiterated, uncertainty creeping into her voice. "When the mission's done. If you want to, that is. I mean we've never-"

 _We've never actually met._

He supposed there was good reason for it, initially. The location of the surveillance team's offices were, naturally, on a need-to-know basis. Sandor had never been one to attend Christmas parties and whatever else the rest of the Agency decided to throw to help them forget the fact they played a very dangerous game. He doubted very many of them would be able to recognise him on sight, and even fewer had ever worked up the courage to speak to him. Ever since the little bird had been thrust into his life, most unwillingly at first, he'd become increasingly careful to avoid the other departments entirely. 

The truth was that he knew, or _feared_ if he was brutally honest with himself, of ever meeting her face to face. As with every other sorry human in his acquaintance, one good look at the half ruin that was his face would send whatever they had between them, the solid structure that had built from tremulous camaraderie to amiable trust crumbling in an instant. 

Better, then, to take what he was given. He got to listen to her chattering away, got to talk to her when he felt like saying something, held the responsibility of her protection on his shoulders. _Let that be enough, Dog,_ his mind cautioned him. 

That didn't stop the lie falling from his lips, unwelcome and entirely unbidden.

"A drink." A voice that sounded an awful lot like his own grated out, interrupting her babble. "I'll hold you to it, little bird."

He was well and truly doomed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am getting on with my other stories, I swear. I've been working on 'Death Comes to Dinner' lately so expect an update soon! But with work and worrying about results (which I no longer have to do *smug smile*) I've not had much time. Now I have! (Until I start worrying about uni, that is. *Nervous muttering*)
> 
> My notes always go off on a tangent. Anyway, Thank you for reading. Let me know your thoughts!
> 
> P.S No offence intended on behalf of the good folks of the Land Registry. It just seemed like a normal and respectable sort of job.


	7. To bed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Post-Blackwater AU in which Joffrey never breaks his engagement to Sansa, and the Hound never leaves KL

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for mentions of abuse

The cries are faint, muffled by the expanse of the door at his back, but they still set his teeth to grinding.

He guards the King's chamber as he does most nights, the hall beyond shadowy save for a few sconces lit at intervals along its length. It's familiar, and almost enough to make him forget.

Tonight, after all, is not like every other night the Hound waits outside his master's rooms. It is his Grace's wedding night, and the occasional sob that reaches his ears from the marital chamber can belong only to his bride. 

The little bird had acted every bit the Queen she would become, that morning when she'd been marched to the Sept of Baelor. Draped in ivory brocade and cloth-of-silver, the colours of House Stark trailing behind her in her maiden's cloak, she looked beyond mere royalty. She was otherworldly, a goddess of winter. 

She had looked no more than a terrified maid by the end of the night, when she'd been stripped naked and jostled up to Joffrey's room. Sandor had averted his eyes then, the jeers of the men fuelling the fury surely stoking itself into an inferno in the pit of his stomach. 

He knows what she is facing in that room. Before now, there had been whores that took the brunt of the boy-king's diseased desires. The Hound had been the one who carried the girl to the Maester, battered and bleeding. He knows that the King will not bed his wife before he has beaten her.

As though in answer to his thoughts, a scream echoes through the door, unmistakeable as anything other than a cry of great pain. Sandor shifts his weight to his right foot, grips the pommel of his sword without conscious thought. _And what will you do?_ he asks of himself bitterly. After all, he is a guard dog at his post, loyal to the last. It is not his place to care about his master's business.

And why should he care in the first place? The girl was nothing to him. She couldn't even look him in the face. _She wanted to be Queen_ , Sandor reminds himself forcefully. _She wanted to be Joff's wife, once. Let her finally see that life is not a song._

He feels the injustice of his thoughts even as they form in his mind. Hadn't she suffered enough already, at the hands of his _noble_ brothers of the Kingsguard? Did she not know of the cruelties of the world, when she herself had been dragged from her horse and abandoned the day of the riots?

Hadn't he sworn, when the sky had swirled green with wildfire, that no one would hurt her again or he'd kill them?

His thoughts betray him, filling up with her, pushing everything else away. Her eyes, blue as Northern skies as she'd tried to thank him. Little hands clasped around his chest when he'd rode them to safety. Her pretty voice chirping its usual courtesies.

Joffrey will corrupt all that. He always did have a talent for poisoning everything he touched. Sudden images flooded Sandor's mind, of those same eyes that so fascinated him blackened and bruised, a tremor of constant fear in her hands, a voice that would only grow fainter with every passing day. The thought is enough to make his anger boil over.

Sansa Stark cries out again, and the Hound opens the door. 

Joffrey doesn't even hear him enter, occupied as he is with his bride. Sansa stands tied to the bedpost, angry red welts covering her arms, her bare chest, almost every luminously pale inch of her marred by the cane in the King's hand. Arranged on a table beside the bed lies a spiked club and the crossbow, just waiting to be wielded by their owner. 

The girl sees him first, her mouth falling open in an 'o' of shock, but still Joffrey remains oblivious. 

Until Sandor's hand finds his shoulder. The boy king wheels around in surprise and outrage, just in time to see the flash of metal in the firelight as the sword pierces clean through him. 

There is a moment where green eyes, wide in disbelief and horror, stare into unyielding grey. 

Then the veil of death clouds them, and Joffrey crumples against the Hound's blade like a puppet cut from its strings. The only sound that can be heard in the room is hard breathing, and it takes a moment for Sandor to realise that it belongs to him. The little bird is staring at her husband's limp body, still stood upright, in utter silence.

Sandor pulls the sword from the boy's chest, and he falls in a heap on the floor. The sound of impact is cushioned by the fine Myrish carpet laid across the flagstones. For a heartbeat, all is silence.

Then the girl gasps in sheer relief, shoulders slumping against her restraints. Sandor hastens to untie them, and suddenly she is free, bare and beautiful and clinging to him as though her life depends on it.

 _"Thank you,"_ she whispers, and he can't even find the words to mock her courtesies in such a moment. A strange numbness has overtaken him, through which the only emotion he can register is the need for action. And, like every good solider, he grasps at it like a man drowning.

"Put this on," he commands, thrusting a silken robe that had been laid across a chair into her arms. "We'll go back to your rooms. Get what you need, and then we run. Understand?"

The girl nods with a vigour that night have been comical had the situation been any different. As it is, Sandor is barely aware of her following his orders as he picks up the body of the King, peeling back the covers an installing the cooling corpse face-down beneath them.

It is on their way out of the chamber, the little bird's hand clamped firmly onto his lower arm, that Meryn Trant comes stalking along the hall. The girl gasps audibly, and Sandor wants to shake sense into her. Instead, he closes the door softly behind them before Trant can get a glimpse inside.

"Clegane," he greets stiffly. To Sansa he says nothing at all, only leers with a cruel glint in his eye, gaze running over her robed figure as though envisioning the ordeal Joffrey would have put her through. _If I hadn't_ run _him through, that is._

"His Grace is resting," Sandor replies gruffly. "He asked that I take the little queen back to her rooms."

Trant only nods, his vile eyes still on Sansa. She stares back with a distant look, still shaken from what just occurred, but seeming to all the world as though horrified by the events of her bedding. Before the knight can say anything else, Sandor steers her along the corridor and out of sight.

To his surprise, and her credit, Sansa is swift in her task. She pulls thick woollen dresses from her wardrobe, stuffs various pieces of clothing into a cloth bag, retrieves small pieces of jewellery they can sell on their way. 

_Where_ they are on their way to seems almost irrelevant as he drags her through the near deserted corridors of the keep, down to the stables where Stranger stamps and huffs his displeasure at the hour. Together they flee into the night, the queen and the king's dog.

Dawn is filled with the ringing of bells that they do not hear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ick. Need I say how much I enjoyed writing Joffrey's death?
> 
> I've had a shitty day. Guess who read the work rota wrong, thought it was her day off, and turned up to work an hour and a half late? *facepalms* I'm in for it tomorrow.
> 
> On the bright side, Security Clegane works on Saturdays. I'm sure he'll comfort me *grins*


	8. A Song of Solidarity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I saw a prompt ages ago that read "Your OTP, but in the 1980s". 
> 
> Naturally we already have the masterpiece that is _Thunderstruck_ , but I wanted to try something slightly different.

It was the sight of _her_ that made him falter. She stood among the chanting crowd, a placard raised high above her head for the benefit of the camera crew assembled at the gates.

She was trying to help, and he was furious about it.

"Why are you here, girl?" He asked when he pulled her aside, the rest of the protesters moving aside instantly to accommodate his enormity. It also helped that he wore a death glare enough to scare a grown man.

Sansa Stark (for that was her name; he'd seen her about before, trailing after Joffrey fucking Baratheon like he was some god's gift to mankind) merely blinked up at him under eyelashes thick with mascara. Her hair was all auburn curls, and where he normally hated it on other women it looked effortless on her.

"I'm here to help," she offered simply, blue gaze flickering momentarily to his burns. Sandor expected her to flinch (he'd noticed her do _that_ before, too) but she surprised him yet again.

"Go home," he advised her in his rough tones. The girl's blue eyes narrowed slightly, her chin lifting in indignation.

"Why? You aren't telling anyone else to go." She gestured to the crowd amassed around them, shouting and chanting and waving their placards with fervour. _Save our mines_ and _Coal not Dole_ and _Out with Thatcher_ blaring out from among the angry, jeering faces of miners and their wives and yes, the odd student who just wanted to assert their own issue with authority. And Sandor laughed.

"That's 'cause they belong here," he told her. "This mine closes, there'll be nothing much going for them." _Or for me, either._ "No one here has daddy's bank account to leech from if things turn out shit. No one here has convenient connections. You say you care about the plight of us _poor_ miners," he sneered at the sign still held in her little pale hand, "but you know fuck all about any of it."

He wasn't sure where the vitriol had come from; the constant well of bitterness deep in his belly was his best bet, and yet it churned uncomfortably when he saw that angry tears had pearled in the little bird's eyes, threatening to fall. 

_Little bird_ ; he'd called her that the first time he saw her, flitting after Joff and chirping her pretty courtesies. Now, in his head, it sounded dangerously like an endearment. So he hardened his expression at the sight of her wet eyes, told himself he felt nothing but anger when she opened her quivering mouth to admonish him.

"Why are you always so _hateful_?" She asked of him, before pushing her way back through the crowd away from him. The only words he'd ever really spoken to her had been to mock her silly courtesy- towards Joffrey, whose family had owned the mine before they decided to sell up and leave their workers for dust- and towards everyone else. Even him. The dog who snapped and barked at her, but would rather die than see the girl hurt again.

 _'Why are you so hateful?'_ Her voice rang accusatory through his brain.

"I don't know," he admitted to no one at all, standing in a crowd and waiting for life to change.

*****  
They'd made it so far, somehow, but it couldn't last.

There were only so many women who could rattle their collecting buckets outside the city market, only so many days families could live off charitable donations, only so many times a riot could be started before the police beat them back. They'd bussed them in a few days before, and they had no love for miners.

He could have gotten a few if he'd allowed himself into the fray of things, but Sandor had held back. Not because he was afraid of the consequences- they could throw him in a cell for all he cared, at least the food would be half decent- but something had stopped him from trying his bulk against the line of riot shields that day.

He had no idea what had possessed her to go there that day. Sandor could only assume that, her family and her circles being who they were, she had not heard that they would be fighting back that day. 

It had been a flash of red, a momentary movement at the edge of his vision, that had told him she was there. The crowd of men had surged forward towards the immovable wall of uniform, hurling bricks and God knew what else, and she had fallen. 

"I was trying to get away," she had told him later, when he had carried her sobbing out of the chaos, hands grazed but otherwise unhurt. "I didn't know what was happening... That they were..."

"Hush now, little bird." He told her gruffly, setting her down on the garden wall of an end-of-terrace. "You're alright." 

She nodded to herself, fat tears rolling down her pretty pink cheeks, hands trembling where she wiped them away. "You can say it now," she told him pitifully, the end other sentence punctuated with a sniff.

"Say what?"

"'I told you so'." The little bird pushed her hair behind her shoulder, exposing her pale neck, and Sandor almost missed what she said next. "That I don't belong here, that I should just go home."

She was so despondent, tone defeated and shoulders hunched where she sat on the brick wall, that it gave him pause. He still thought those things, but something made him hold his tongue about that fact. 

"Forget what I said," he told her instead. His hands found her shoulders, and her eyes wandered up to meet his, wide and uncertain. "You'd better go home _now_ , but... if you want to come back, to protest or whatever it is you want to do, don't let anyone fucking stop you. _Especially_ not me."

It was only later, sitting in the house alone, that Sandor found himself hoping she would heed that advice. That she would come back; tomorrow, maybe, or the day after. A stupid notion, as all hope was, but he could not deny its existence. Nor could he quite forget the way she had felt in his arms, if only for the briefest of minutes, or the way she had clung to him as he'd carried her to safety.

Those thoughts plagued him all night, and when he woke he knew he was a lost cause.

*****  
She did come back, a few weeks later. The day the mine would be closed for good. 

The street was lined with people; men he'd known for as long as he'd worked in the pit, their families. They stood in somber silence as the gates, groaning as though in agony, were padlocked shut. 

Sandor hated pretence, but somehow the solemnity of the moment was not lost on him. He stood stony-faced as the rest of them, watching as a news reporter summarised what was only one in many such closures, what would be for most people just the shutting of unprofitable business and not the loss of livelihoods. He found he could not hate them for it, and he could normally find hate for damn near anyone.

A slight tug on his sleeve alerted him to the figure that had slipped in beside him, incongruous in her beauty. She wore the same expression as everyone else, until he met her eyes and she offered him the slightest of sad smiles. 

"I'm sorry," she told him softly, and he knew she meant it. Sandor shrugged his massive shoulders, his gaze returning to the reporter. The camera had begun to pan across the faces in the crowd, and he vaguely wondered just how many people would double take at his scarred visage on their television screens when the damn thing reached where they stood.

"I never thanked you," Sansa continued, ever so softly, as though her words were glass. "For saving me. The day of the riot, I mean."

He turned to look down at her, about to retort that he didn't need her thanks, that he'd done nothing brave or impressive, but he was cut off by the sudden press of her lips on his. Ever so softly, like snow falling to the ground, but his shock was so great she might have slapped him clean across the face.

Then his senses returned to him, and the girl pulled away only for him to bring her back, more forcefully this time, trying to convey all he'd never tell her in that one gesture. _You sound like a fucking green boy,_ he told himself sternly. The little bird smiled against his mouth, and he found he did not care.

He cared a little more when that same kiss was on the news the next morning, and a Mr Eddard Stark knocked at his door by the afternoon. The man's mouth was a solemn line, and Sandor fought to think of a threatening defence for his actions.

Then Stark spoke. "I heard you might be interested in a new job," he offered, an almost apologetic smile at the corner of his mouth. And Sandor laughed.

"That I might."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I hear 1980s and my brain goes 'Miner's strike!!' (Blame it on last year's "The History of British Politics: 1945-1990" course. And Billy Elliot. And Pride.)
> 
> Have any of you seen Pride?? It's so good. Even Bill Nighy's Welsh accent is brilliant.


	9. Cwtch

Winter was settling in. Its icy breath rattled in the winds that blew through the Mountains of the Moon, sweeping down the barren slopes and causing the pools to shudder to themselves.

They had been riding hard for days now. Weeks maybe. On and on through the relentless wind and cold, trying to put as much distance between themselves and the Eyrie as possible. There was no doubt they would be followed; Petyr Baelish was not the sort of man to be robbed of his prize pawn without objection. So they kept moving; drinking from hillside springs, eating on horseback, snatching fitful sleep in shifts. 

Nights were the worst. It grew so cold that even the ground seemed to seep the warmth from them, something the Hound had warned her of on their first evening after fleeing Littlefinger's clutches. They therefore rested on patches of heather or moss, their bedrolls and the moth-eaten blankets Sansa strongly suspected had been taken from a stable, judging by their smell.

The terrain was too open for a fire, so they had to huddle closer than propriety would have governed. Sansa supposed that the Hound still did not care about such things. _Sandor Clegane_ , she reminded herself sharply, sitting up a little where she'd slumped exhausted in her saddle. Wherever he had been in the years since she had seen him last, the man had calmed considerably. He no longer barked at her like he once did, nor did he mock her words or questions when she had the energy to voice them.

But some of the man she had one known in the Red Keep remained; his surface deceptively calm, hiding something _more_ beneath. It used to be anger, but now... She couldn't name it. She wasn't sure she currently had the strength to try.

She watched Clegane from where he rode ahead of her atop his black horse, his head turning every so often to scan their surroundings. The man had mentioned little of Littlefinger, had asked almost nothing of her time in the Vale, and for that she was grateful. Sansa didn't want to think of it; the way she had had to lie for Petyr only to be rewarded with his empty promises and unwelcome kisses, watching Sweetrobin grow weaker with each passing day as his food was drugged with sweetsleep. It made her feel used, and terribly, achingly guilty.

Most of all, it made her feel afraid.

The pass they were winding through was inhabited by a small stream, a narrow ribbon of icy blue against the otherwise bleak landscape. It made a soft gurgling noise on its race to the sea. The sound, accompanied with the cold wind that stole her strength and the bone-tiredness from another restless night soon had Sansa's eyelids drooping... Perhaps she could just close them for a moment... 

She opened her eyes again to find the world slipping sideways, her stomach jolting in shock and panic. _No_ , it was her who slipping, losing her balance on the saddle, her left foot caught in the stirrup even as the rest of her tumbled to the ground. She gasped in pain, the wind knocked out of her lungs. 

Her mare had broken into a run, startled, dragging Sansa at her side- until suddenly she wasn't. All was still again, and someone was pulling her loose, letting her fall onto her stomach with a graceless _umph_.

"You alright, little bird?" Sandor Clegane asked her, a hulking shadow in her peripheral vision. She _was_ alright, she realised slowly- her left ankle throbbed a little and her hands were grazed from the rocky trail but aside from that, all was well.

It didn't stop hot tears from spilling down her cheeks, splashing into the ugly grey cloak she had bundled herself in every morning since her escape. It didn't stop those tears turning effortlessly into sobs, ones that wracked her whole frame as she curled in on herself, clutching to her knees as though stopping herself from falling apart entirely.

Sansa was tired, and cold. They hadn't eaten properly in days, just stale bread and salted beef. There was no way of knowing if they were being followed; if Baelish knew they were headed north, if he knew which road they would take. And if he found her... The thought was unbearable, sudden images of her aunt falling from the Moon Door flooding her mind. The knot of fear seemed to tighten in the pit of her stomach, making her want to retch, to get the poison out.

So overwhelmed was she by this sudden onslaught of worry that she did not notice the large man sink to his knees beside her, the motion awkward in his height and the way he favoured one leg. Not at first. 

But then she registered pressure between her shoulder blades, repetitive. Her eyes opened, stinging with her tears, to find Clegane not an arm's length away, brow creased with uncertainty. 

_He's patting my back_ , Sansa realised, the notion making the sobs die in her throat. His hand was meeting her back in slow, repetitive motions. It was hesitant and awkward, and so out of place she might have laughed aloud, had the situation been any different.

As it was, fresh tears started to fall from her eyes, and before she knew it Sansa was sobbing again.

"Stop that," the Hound barked roughly, though he sounded more concerned than annoyed. "No crying."

That only made her cry _harder_ , and without thinking she slumped forward, resting her forehead against his massive shoulder. The noises issuing from her throat were horrendous, ugly things that no lady should ever make, but Sansa found she did not care. 

Instead, she let years' worth of loneliness and grief forth where she had held it back for so long. Alayne Stone never had reason to cry- not even when she was alone in her room in the Eyrie, thinking of another girl's memories. A girl she'd thought long dead.

She had thought the Hound dead, too. But there he was, still as stone as she clung to him. He was just as unyielding, too, until Sansa felt the arm not pressed against her back being placed tentatively round her shoulders, surrounding her. She could feel his warmth seeping into her bones, the beating of his heart against the palm she had curled against his chest. Of all the nights they had spent lying side by side, she had never been so close to him. The idea did not unnerve her in the slightest.

He did not speak, and she was grateful. All she needed was what he was giving her; a strange safety, a reassurance that he would protect her still as he had long ago. It was a promise, one neither of them had to acknowledge.

It seemed as though they stayed there for the longest time, the whistling of the wind from the hilltops and the rushing of the stream the only sounds that dared intrude on the moment. She could feel the scratch of his woollen cloak beneath her cheek, and the smell of him filled her nose with each breath- sweat and leather and an earthiness she could not name, but would gladly spend a lifetime trying to. 

And like all moments, it had to end.

"You're alright," he told her, helping her to her feet where she reluctantly released her hold on his shoulders. She nodded, expecting to feel some shame for her sudden outburst of emotion. It never came. 

"Get back in the saddle, then. I want to clear this pass before nightfall."

With that, Sandor Clegane had turned back to his horse, pulling himself up and into the saddle. Sansa mirrored him, her mind numb, spurring her mare to follow as they resumed their journey.

There was, however, a warm pool of calm where the fear had once sat in her stomach. She _was_ alright- he would keep her safe, and she had to trust in that fact if try were to make it to the North. To Winterfell.

In truth, she knew she already did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another 'Welsh words that don't translate directly into English' chapter. Hoorah!
> 
> I have often heard a Cwtch defined as a 'hug'. This is a slight oversimplification. A Cwtch is literally a _place of safety_ \- whether that be a hug (of the warmest, loveliest and most comforting variety) or the cosiest room in the house. [For example, in my aunt's house the cwtch is the back room with the wood-burning fireplace and the squashy sofas and the beams from 1700. But I digress...]
> 
> I suppose the idea of this chapter is centred around that translation-of offering a place of safety- rather than the physical contact itself. Although I do enjoy writing Sandor as an awkward hugger. Bless his cotton socks.
> 
> Comments feed the author <3 Let me know what ya think, lovelies!
> 
> The Cake Conundrum- writing notes longer than her drabbles since 2014


	10. Do not go gentle into that good night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Angst (and a little bit of fluff if you squint).

His nightmares used to be aflame. They still are, even now; except the worst ones have a different sort of fire in them.

Her hair is always a glint of burnished copper in the corner of his vision, just out of sight, a needle's breadth out of reach. And that is all it takes; in his dreams, he can never save her.

Sandor has seen her die a hundred times over. Always, always, he is too late. He has watched in frozen horror as she pulls Joffrey from the battlements of the Red Keep, the skirts of her dress flying as she falls down, down, down...

The small folk have rioted for bread in Sandor's sleep a thousand times since the day Myrcella left for Dorne. These times, however, he can never reach her, his limbs heavy as granite, his arms like stone as he tries to cut his way to her, through the men pulling her down, out of his sight. He burns with rage and his stomach roils in fear, but it makes no difference. He does not save her there either.

In the worst one, the one that haunts him tonight, he is stumbling through the halls of Maegor's, bloodied and shaken, to her chambers. The world smells like smoke and charred flesh, and through the nausea he feels all he can think of is his little bird. 

When he finds her rooms, however, it is to see the door forced open. All inside is eerily silent, the green glow of wildfire flickering from the windows within. He advances with baited breath and a mounting sense of dread, knowing what he will find there, knowing it will be nothing short of the seven hells for him...

" _Sandor_!"

His name is a terrified scream through the silence of the keep, and time seems to slow as he struggles to the door, his feet leaden and unwilling to let him help her, let him _save_ her, his little bird crying out for him. He feels someone touch his shoulder, doesn't even think to turn and face them. His vision blackens at the edges...

"Sandor."

His eyes snap open, a hand stretching out to wrap threateningly around the one tapping his shoulder, but when he looks up to find a pair of wide blue eyes staring at him he releases it in a heartbeat. 

Sansa has sat up in bed, regarding him with a mixture of concern and understanding he is sure must belong solely to wives and mothers. She is both now, he remembers with a shaky exhale of relief, his eyes scanning their bedchamber. This is Winterfell, she is Wardeness of the North, and she lives and breathes beside him.

"A nightmare." It's not a question, and so Sandor does not answer it, choosing instead to look at her. Her hair is dishevelled from sleep and curling loose around her shoulders, just as he likes it best. She raises a hand to his face, strokes a line down his burnt cheek with her thumb, and though he cannot truly feel it he's sure her warmth is seeping through.

"Do you want to talk of it?" She asks him, though she knows the answer. He will gladly hear of her bad dreams when they plague her, will hold her close when she wakes and talk in her ear, whisper threats against those who haunt her sleep (though the boy King has been dead many a year and he silenced the mockingbird himself). She likes him to tell her how safe she is, how no one will ever hurt her again, and he does so because it's the truth. So long as he breathes no harm will come to her.

_So long as I breathe_... But he would not do so forever...

"No," he tells her finally, his tone a little harsher than he'd intended. She doesn't balk, however; instead she sighs softly and nuzzles her face against his throat, her arms circling his neck. He is surrounded by her, the smell and the warm weight of his wife, and it is enough to silence his fears. For now at least.

"Go back to sleep," he tells her. He means to tell her he loves her, but even now he is not a man of flowered speech. 

She seems to know his mind, however, for she presses a tender kiss to his forehead. Long after she falls asleep, he can feel it burning into his skin, a reminder that she is his and he is hers. And she is safe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A note on:
> 
> **My little hiatus** : I can only apologise for this but I started university the week before last so I was very busy with lectures. And Freshers. Needless to say there was a lot of hungover studying done.
> 
> **Updates** : I'm hoping to update 'death comes to dinner' again very soon but the latest chapter is being a pain in the arse so we have some discussion to do, man-to-man. Well, girl-to-chapter. This all makes sense in my head.
> 
> **The chapter title** : Let's play 'Guess the Poet'! (Feels a little too easy for me but it might just be because the man was a local... *Hint hint, wink wink, nudge nudge*).   
> Let's make things interesting... First one to guess correctly. Prize is a one-shot of your choice. Y'know, if you fancy it... *sweeps dramatically out of the room and jams cape in door*
> 
> Damn.
> 
> P.s Thanks for reading, you lovely specimen you :3


	11. Count your Losses [or, Count your Blessings]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTE: For ToxoplasmaFabulousa, belated but as promised. Endless apologies for the wait <3
> 
> This follows on from the third chapter in this drabble series, ‘Dawn’.

When winter finally ended, it took her by surprise.

She had heard it said before, of course, that long winters often end abruptly. That had been when she was but a girl at Old Nan’s knee. She had believed that girl long gone, lost under years’ worth of blood and grief and harsh unending snows.

Twelve years the North had waited, in a winter as bitter and brutal as it had expected. And through it all, Lady Sansa of house Stark had seen her people through. It was by her hand that provisions had been sent from the South and across the Narrow Sea; it had been at her command that vast swathes of tunnels be re-dug beneath Winter Town so that, in the worst bites of a snowstorm, none need venture out of doors and risk their safety. It had been _her_ that had kept them safe from those who would do the North harm once more, never once tiring in her task, not even when Rickon finally came of age to rule as Warden of the North in her stead.

Now it was spring, and she was tired.

It was with an inexplicable weariness that she dragged herself to the window to gaze outside. The snows had begun to fade and thaw over two months before, but looking past the pane all that remained of them were a few patches of white on the upper slopes of the hills and the topmost boughs of the Wolfswood. It was with leaden arms that she dressed herself in her warmest clothes (she had learned to make do without maids; in the worst stages of the winter, she had lost two alone to the cold). And it was with a numb sort of awareness that she allowed herself to be lead, by little grasping hands, out beyond the walls of the keep, into the godswood.

“Look, Mother!” 

Sansa looked to find her daughter running toward a gap between the trees. There a small cluster of spring flowers, the hardiest of its kind, had pushed up from its deep slumber beneath the ground in search of the sun. She watched with dazed emotion as her little Elinor (not so little any more; she had survived ten years of winter) bent to touch the tender petals with her fingers, light and dainty as Sansa’s had been, once. Looking down at them now, she noticed how cracked and sore they seemed, fingernails gnawed to the quick. 

One of those hands was currently in the grasp of a much smaller one, stubby fingers curled around her own. They belonged to a boy not yet four; little Eddard stood close to her leg, one thumb stuck inside his mouth (though she had often told him that lords aren’t expected to suck their thumbs), watching his sister’s joy. 

“Go and see,” she encouraged him, and was astounded at how she found the strength to form the words. Eddard smiled up at her with her sister’s dark eyes, and ran off toward Elinor in that funny off-balance toddle she was sure belonged solely to little boys.

Something shifted behind her, the tiniest scrape of boots over stones, and suddenly her senses woke as if from a deep sleep. She spun, hand darting towards her belt where the dagger lay sheathed and ready, as she had been taught. But then she stopped.

Her husband stood there, an unreadable expression cast over his features. In the fair light now tumbling through the bare bowers above them, his scars were cast in a harsh contrast that made them seem to shift across his face. Once, Sansa knew, she would have balked at the very sight of it. Many still would, she thought sadly, even after all these years. Even after all he had done for them.

“Thought I’d find you out here.” His voice was low, but light; the heaviness that plagued her mind seemingly did not bother him in that moment. Sandor’s grey eyes swept over her head towards their son and daughter, crinkling at their edges the way they always did when fighting a smile. 

The winter had changed him, too. He was calmer now, somehow; less easy to rile and anger, quicker to voice his thoughts. It had been prudent to keep his patience, kept inside the keep as they were for many months on end. Now she could not help but admire him for it. A new scar or two here, more than one toe lost to frostbite on his patrols across the Gift; her husband had given more of himself to his duty, to his _family_ , than she supposed she could ever have asked him for.

The thought set a tight lump in her throat, and it was all she could do to try to swallow it down. The numb shock that had descended upon her earlier had vanished just as the snows had, and now it was as though a torrent of emotion were hitting her all at once, meltwater floods from the winter that had passed. She thought of her father, his bones resting beneath Winterfell; she thought of her mother, and all that had Lady Brienne had told her in her last missive. Robb, and Bran, and Jeyne Poole, and Jory; their faces rose like ghosts in her mind, the memory of those who should have been home with her too. 

Sandor was watching her, concern rising steadily in his steady gaze, and suddenly it was more than she could bear for him to see her cry, see her break. He’d come to call her his ‘little wolf’ in recent years, because she had grown stronger now. She did not want him to see that the wolf she wore so proudly before Winterfell hid no more than a little pup, tired and frightened and forced to grow up too fast.

“Mama,” a voice called out from behind her. Sansa turned from her husband’s knowing eyes to find Eddard standing behind her, his arm held out before him, a flower clenched in his little fist, roots and all. He wore a tentative smile on his face, as though unsure his mother would like such a gift. 

Wordlessly, she bent and took the flower from him. “Thank you, Eddard.” The words were a broken whisper that she only _just_ managed to keep steady. She could feel the hot sting of tears in her eyes, and she tried to blink them away as Eddard ran back to his sister, who was absent-mindedly running her hand over a few dead blades of grass.

A warm weight closed around her shoulders, and suddenly she was leaning into Sandor’s mailed shoulder as she let the tears escape, turning her face that her children would not see her cry.

“You’re alright, little wolf,” he told her, in that gruff solemn way that meant that he loved her. “My little bird. You’re alright. It’s over.”

She did not know if he meant the winter, or all the times of pain and loss she had relived in the past few moments, but Sansa did not care. His words melted the sadness in her heart like sunlight. She held him tight, until her tears ran dry, and those that remained fell to the ground like a promise of spring rain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bittersweet little one, wasn't it?
> 
> I understand that many an apology and explanation is needed for my inexplicable absence over the last few months. I can attribute it to a number of things: firstly, coursework, projects and exam preparation that comes as part and parcel of being a university student and using up my free time. Boo, hiss!   
> Secondly, I've been finding any writing inspiration thin on the ground as of late. It might be because we're having an especially dreary winter this year. Rain, rain and more rain. Not good for getting the creative juices flowing in my case.   
> Thirdly, it's been a bit of a bumpy few months in regard to my family life. Illnesses of loved ones and bereavements have sapped quite a bit of time and energy from me recently. But hopefully now i'll start to get back into the swing of things as best i can.
> 
> If anyone still has enough patience to spare me, lots and lots of love to you, my dearies! Hope to get back to talkin' to you fabulous individuals soon :3
> 
> P.S If i've neglected to respond to any comments during my absence, endless apologies!! I'm not one to ignore people so please trust that any and all comments made from here on in will most definitely be answered swiftly <3  
> P.S.S Though the anecdote is likely forgotten- Security Clegane moved away with his girlfriend recently so i'm also very sad about this too :'(


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